


Rapunzel's fatal mistake

by arbitrarybookshelf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3987115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarybookshelf/pseuds/arbitrarybookshelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gothel returns to find her precious flower missing and a crime scene in her wake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rapunzel's fatal mistake

“And when, exactly, did you notice your daughter’s disappearance?”

Detective Inspector Lestrade was bored of the case before it even began. He had been called away from his office to investigate a murder and a kidnapping that were somehow linked. A wanted criminal had been found dead, lying in the closet of a single room, in a tower that was at least four stories high. The eighteen year-old girl who resided in such a place was missing. Lestrade had struggled to get the old woman who claimed to be the girl’s mother to cooperate, as she refused to give any sort of description of her daughter, and had no further knowledge regarding the incident. She was pale, and seemed to be ageing by the minute. The forensics team had found nothing of interest, so the investigation was successfully going nowhere. After much contemplation, Lestrade answered the impatient text waiting in his coat pocket. He needed help.

 

_You’ll never get anywhere on your own. - SH_

_Fine. You know where we are._

 

With a frustrated sigh, Lestrade turned to the old woman in the armchair.

“Backup will be along shortly. Don’t worry, your daughter will be returned to you as soon as possible.” Before the woman could engage him in another bout of aimless drabble about the lost girl, Lestrade turned to the other side of the room.

“Is he coming?” Came the disinterested voice of Sally Donovan. Lestrade shot her a look.

“He’s the only chance we’ve got.” Donovan huffed in exasperation. As if on cue, the window darkened and a figure in a long black coat stepped through the withered frame. “Jesus Christ! Could you not have come through any other way? The front door perhaps?” Lestrade made no attempt at hiding his frustrations, he was passed the point of caring.

“I did.” With a graceful hop, Sherlock Holmes landed on the wooden floor. When the inspector looked quizzical he added, “Just walking around the building’s perimeter it’s obvious that the door that was conveniently made available to you this morning is not the usual, or preferred, way in. From the piles of stone outside the entrance and the damp feel to the walls inside the bottom of this tower even your lot could have figured out that it is a prepared entrance and only used for emergencies, such as when the police are due to visit.” Sherlock spat the word 'police' in the direction of the woman who was doing her very best not to be noticed. “There are scuff marks on the outer brick in a vertical line from the window to the ground, indicating that it has been scaled before, not just once, but multiple times over a number of years. _You_ ,” he added pointing at the woman, “are much too old and frail to be the one to scale a tower the way I have just done, so I’m guessing you’re not the one who does the work. There must be some form of rope or platform that is elevated by the labour of another person, judging by the lack of machinery around. The only other person that we know has been inside this building for an extended period of time would have been your alleged ‘daughter’. The fact that there is no permanent fixing to enable easy access to the tower, and the sheer complexity of the actions required when there is a perfectly usable stairwell indicate that whoever operates the elevating function is not intended to be able to use it themselves, so one person can easily get up, but without help, one may not easily descend the tower.” Sherlock crossed the room and spoke in a low voice to Inspector Lestrade, “Arrest the woman.”

“What? She killed the thief?” Sherlock hadn’t even addressed the issue of the murder yet, he had taken the liberty to solve one crime at a time.

“No, she kidnapped the girl.”

“Hang on,” Lestrade made a less satisfactory attempt at lowering his voice, “Why would she kidnap her own daughter?” Sherlock looked at him incredulously and spoke in a tone that was a borderline whisper,

“What about this woman says ‘mother’ to you? The girl is eighteen. Correct?” Lestrade felt belittled.

“Correct.”

“And this woman? In my opinion she looks about eighty-five. Likely older. Eighteen years ago she would still have been infertile, it is very unlikely that she would have been able to conceive a child of her own.” 

“So the girl’s adopted then, so what?”

“No. If the possession of this child was legitimate, why would this woman feel such a need to hide her away? How many happy families do you know that live in the middle of nowhere in a hidden clearing miles from civilization of any kind, in a tower that’s four stories off the ground?” Sherlock smirked at Lestrade’s defeated expression.  “Eighteen years ago, the King and Queen had a child. Within a week of the birth, the child was kidnapped. No sign of the lost princess since. Of course, this is based on the balance of probability, but all the signs point to the assumption that this ‘daughter’ we are looking for has been looked for all her life. My theory at this present moment in time is that the girl we are looking for is in fact-”

“The lost princess...” Lestrade looked content with this, and Sherlock swirled around to face the body of the criminal,

“Now, in terms of the actual murder, I will need more time. Cause of death?” There was a bleak silence, “Oh come ON! If you can’t even do the basic requirements of your job then what exactly is the point of you?”

“His name is Flynn Rider...?” Came a mumble from the other side of the room.

“No it isn’t.” Sherlock was now crouched over the crumpled form of the dead thief when suddenly an infuriated Donovan thrust a piece of paper in front of his face.

“Yes. It. Is. For once could you not just completely ignore _everything_ we tell you?” Sherlock looked up coldly and stood towering over her.

“I’ve seen the wanted posters  _Sally_ , but in your experience as a marginally effective police officer, have you ever encountered a frequent criminal to use his own name while on his raids? Flynn Rider,” Sherlock took his time over the name, as if trying to decipher a code hidden in the syllables, “It’s a stage name, like ‘Jack the Ripper’ or ‘The Golem’. This man doesn’t do this for fun, it’s not a hobby, this is his living. Mr. Rider is what you may call a ‘professional’. Professionals in this area of expertise never use their real names. It’s to separate themselves from their everyday identity, through I have a feeling that this particular criminal is full-time. Still, his real name is ‘Eugene FitzHerbert’.” There were mumbles of disbelief from the crowd of police that had gathered to watch Sherlock. With a glance from Donovan, they skulked back to work.  
Lestrade folded his arms,

“How do you know?”

“His name is written in the inside of his waistcoat, which also indicates that he’s had it for a while, probably since before he resorted to crime, as adults never write their names on their clothes. The arm holes have traces of thread that have been temporarily sewn in, most likely by himself. That indicates that they had once had sleeves, and judging by the aging of the fabric they were removed a long time ago. As he grew, he altered the fabric of his clothes. Financial status right there.” Sherlock bent down again to examine the head of the corpse that was lolling out the bottom the the cupboard. “He was killed initially by a blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument, there’s minimal blood, but I trust you’d have found the right weapon by now if it was still here-”

“So the murderer took the weapon?” Lestrade interrupted.

“Probably. It’s a lucky strike, the person who delivered it wasn’t skilled...”

“Not skilled? To kill someone in one hit and not be skilled? I find that hard to believe...” Sherlock flexed his wrists

“Well not experienced then. She would have made a better attempt at hiding the body if that was the case.”

“She?”

“Oh for God’s sake. Don’t tell me you’re so hopelessly obtuse that you don’t see what’s right in front of you.” Lestrade just waited for the abuse to settle before motioning for Sherlock to explain what he obviously thought was impossible to miss. “The missing girl killed the thief. That’s the only explanation. It was probably self-defence; if she was locked up here all her life she was probably slightly startled to see anyone but her ‘mother’ entering her room, and acted accordingly. Once she’d realised what she’d done, she panicked, made a futile attempt to cover her tracks, but was probably interrupted halfway through due to the frankly compromising position the corpse was found in. You’ve been here, what, an hour?” Sherlock glanced up at Lestrade,

“And a half, yes.”

“The corpse is still fresh, and coupled with the time it must have taken for our kidnapper here to open up the alternative entrance, then little miss murderer must have heard her coming before she could do anything better with her victim’s body, and fled.” Sherlock made his way to the open window, “File a ‘missing persons’ report or whatever you do. She could be miles away now, but no matter. Just look for an eighteen year old girl with unnaturally long hair.” Lestrade couldn’t believe his ears,

“What?”

“Just trust me!” shouted Sherlock as he flung himself out of the window.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a purely experimental combination of my favourite Disney movie and my favourite TV series. It was also my first fan fiction, hope you like it!  
> (I do not own the characters or anything associated with either feature).


End file.
